Phantom Voices
by WritingMage
Summary: Nobody truly knows her, not like he does. This is the truth, the only truth. Hermione stares out the tower window with a smile. She will meet him soon, she knows. Of course she will. Then, they will be together forever, for he is hers, only hers. Just like she is his.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters, and I only own the interpretation of my characters and the nearly nonexistent plot. Also, this is about Tom/Hermione, but at the same time, not really, at least not how you might expect. And before I forget, expect a creepiness factor.

* * *

 _Blink. Blink again._

Hermione blinks twice. In front of her, a professor, McGonagall, stares at her with her lips pulled in a severe line, a line so severe there is no more blood in her lips. Her lips are white, pale, like pillows, like ghosts, two little ghost bodies pressed against each other.

If she could, Hermione would smile, but the voice has told, no, hissed to her that she _mustn't_ smile. So, of course, Hermione doesn't.

Hermione isn't sure why she does it, what the voice says, but the voice has been whispering to her as long as she can remember. She has known it longer than she has known anybody, even herself. In reality, Hermione thinks to herself, the voice is the only entity, being?, that knows her. It knows her dreams, her secrets, her sins. Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, they don't know her as well as the voice does, as well as he does. Well, Hermione thinks the voice is a he. At least, it sounds like one…

"Hermione, Hermione," she hears McGonagall say above her. "Ms. Granger, are you alright?"

 _Look up now._

Hermione looks up through her lashes. Her eyes are wide pools overfilling with tears, just like they'd practiced. She's perfect; this moment is perfect. If it didn't ruin the moment, Hermione would beam. She really is perfect right now, and he must be proud. He must be. How couldn't he be, she thinks to herself feverishly. Suddenly the tears spill across her cheeks, and Hermione wonders if they look like little diamonds glistening in the sunlight.

Above her, McGonagall looks stricken. In this moment, Hermione sees the woman who has seen a war and death and continued despite it. Who did she lose, Hermione wonders absentmindedly. Do their ghosts still haunt her in the night?

Eventually, somebody pulls Hermione off the ground. They wrap her in a thin blanket. When they think she finally falls to sleep in the cot, they whisper about her, about what happened. They question how something so horrible could have happened. How could Dumbledore let something like this happen-

"Madam Pomfrey," McGonagall says sharply, "Tragedy befalls everybody indiscriminately. It is not Dumbledore's fault any more than it is Ms. Granger's or Mr. Potter's or Mr. Weasley's." McGonagall's voice is strong, but Hermione hears the age in her voice. Surely Madam Pomfrey does as well.

Hermione opens her eyes just a little to see Madam Pomfrey's frowning face. Then she falls back into sleep, lulled by the whispering voice.

 _You did so very well, Dearest. So very well. All is going according to plan._

When Madam Pomfrey sees the smile on Hermione's face, she feels very heavy. All she wants is to collapse or cry or maybe sleep forever. Poor girl, she thinks to herself. How terrible will it be when she wakes up to reality? Slipping a little more Sleeping Draught between Hermione's lips, Madam Pomfrey only wants for Hermione's good dreams to last a little longer.

* * *

 **Original Posting Date:** February 4, 2018

 **Prompt:** N/A

 **Word Count:** 500

 **Note:** Whaddaya think? Meant to be creepy. Hopefully, the final chapter will be on time for Valentine's Day :3


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters, and I only own the interpretation of my characters and the nearly nonexistent plot. Also, this is about Tom/Hermione, but at the same time, not really, at least not how you might expect. And before I forget, expect a creepiness factor.

* * *

Everybody stares and whispers. Hermione isn't quite sure why. Well, she knows why, but she doesn't understand why. Death happens all the time. It does, really. There's nothing wrong or interesting about it. Not really.

With a sigh, Hermione gets up from the common room chair. The wall has gotten very boring to stare at; Hermione has mapped each imperfection, every dent, every crevice. She knows the wall very well now. There is no reason to look anymore.

Slowly, Hermione arranges her books. First, transfiguration, second, potions, and third, her Hogwarts a History. Hefting them into her arms, Hermione takes her first steps. Each step sounds heavily in the initial silence. Eventually she reaches the door. As she leaves, the whispers cling to her like water to skin. They are her baptism, her rite of passage. She listens to them all.

 _Poor Hermione-_

 _-It must be so hard._

 _-She's in shock!-_

 _Don't talk so loud…_

 _Stop staring at her!_

From the corner of her eye, Hermione stares at the third year who whispers the last comment. It is a sweet gesture, she thinks vaguely, but more importantly, she wonders how long the little third year's bouts of kindness will last. Hopefully not too long. Idealism is harsh sword with a sharp blade.

Looking down at the worn leather of her books, Hermione continues lost in stagnant lake of thoughts. All her sensations, the touch of the books against her fingers, the musty smell of unaired hallways, the taste of the old air mingling with the pepper imp in her mouth. It's all muted, like a television program only half seen through the blizzard of interrupted signal. Barely a wisp, they only skim the waters of Hermione's consciousness. The only thing she knows for certain is that she feels the impact of her sole-clad feet against the cold stone of the castle. Somewhere in the distance, she imagines that she hears the echo of her steps being swallowed into the stone.

And mostly, all that Hermione feels is the own emptiness inside her mind. It is very empty, and like a stagnant lake, there is nothing. There is no life or sun or rain. There is only still, murky waters.

By the time Hermione arrives at McGonagall's office, there is a distinct chill in the castle halls. Every student that Hermione passed had a slight chill. At least, Hermione thinks they did. There is no other reason for them to shiver when they pass beside each other. Maybe there is also a chill in the rooms, she notes. Even McGonagall's body wracks slightly when Hermione enters despite the roaring heat of the fireplace behind her. But how could McGonagall be so cold and have such a red flush on her skin, like the flush on spring blooms and cherry sunsets? Not, of course, that there are many of those in this place.

Hermione blinks.

"Miss. Granger, Miss Granger," McGonagall's voice is stern. "Miss Granger," she repeats once more, "you may sit."

* * *

 **Original Posting Date:** March 3, 2018

 **Prompt:** N/A

 **Word Count:** 500

 **Note:** Writing creepy Hermione makes me strangely happy :) It's a nice change of pace from angst/playful stuff Also, I am busy expect to wait two weeks to a month for updates, it's unfortunate but true :( But be happy! ;)


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